


Close Encounters of the Pureblood Kind

by TobermorianSass



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Crossover, F/M, Homophobic slurs and violence, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-04-02 20:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4073134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobermorianSass/pseuds/TobermorianSass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1000 AD, Rowena Ravenclaw deciphered the mysterious scribblings on the Pensieve at the heart of Hogwarts. In 1080 AD, Europe's wizards and magical beings left the Earth for better worlds. By the end of the 19th century, not a single trace of magic remained on the planet and all the magicians who remained on Earth were little more than pretenders who dabbled in the sort of magic found only in books - wrong and utterly useless.</p><p>Or so it seemed until February 1985, when out of nowhere, Justin Finch-Fletchley discovered that a) he had magic and b) the whole universe was after him.</p><p>Literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Simple Man of Simple Tastes

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a Harry Potter/Jupiter Ascending AU and then spiralled wildly out of control from there and merged with the draft idea I'd had for a [2001: A Space Odyssey AU](http://tobermoriansass.tumblr.com/post/110187244200/enigma-a-harry-potter-2001-a-space-odyssey) a long time ago. Plot points from both series will probably make an appearance here, though with a lot more... complications. The tags on this fic are nowhere near complete and I'll be adding in characters & relationships as they appear.
> 
> Cheers to all the people who sat around listening to me yell about this.
> 
> ETA 12/01/2015: there are parts of this fic, especially after the obviously Jupiter Ascending parts of this fic are done with, that are going to draw heavily on Star Wars for inspiration. It's safe to say that this fic is less crossover and more 'tribute to my favourite space films' than anything else now.

_For the cherub with his flaming sword is hereby commanded to leave his guard at tree of life,_  
_And when he does, the whole creation will be consumed,  
_ _And appear infinite and holy whereas now it appears finite & corrupt._

\- [The Marriage of Heaven and Hell](http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Marriage_of_Heaven_and_Hell), William Blake

* * *

Justin Finch-Fletchley was not an extraordinary man.

He’d once killed a man – by accident – but he wasn’t extraordinary.

He was the youngest son of a baronet and an earl’s daughter, but then in his days at Oxford, he’d been surrounded by dukes and earls and viscounts, so really, quite ordinary.

Surrounded, that is, until he’d killed the man.

He lived in a flat in Holborn, now, with Kevin and Dean from the Labour Soc at Oxford and Hermione who had been there That Day. Now _Hermione_ was extraordinary – she could move books about with a wave of her hand and if she really tried, she could even read people’s minds. Once, she’d even managed to erase their memories and for that Justin was eternally grateful to her and doggedly certain that this made her unusually extraordinary. More so than his other flatmates. Dean could paint and Kevin wasn’t half bad on the drums, but Justin had nothing besides his ability to argue Marxist theory – and the flat in Holborn. Lots of people his age had flats in Holborn, so he really wasn’t extraordinary even if most of them never lay in bed at night, feeling blood and gore wet and warm on their faces or that tight little ball of panic growing smaller and denser inside until it felt it would explode.

So really, Justin Finch-Fletchley was not an extraordinary man, even if his parents thought he got himself mixed up in too many protests for his own good. Like the Support the Miners strike at Trafalgar Square. Which they were on the way to. Despite his parents’ express instructions to not interfere with something that was clearly beyond his control and would clearly tarnish him in the eyes of any potential future employers.

After he went for his blood test, that is. Angering his parents was one thing – his mother would write him a hysterical letter, his father, a curt one and in a few days, the whole matter would have been forgotten – angering Hermione was quite another. Besides which, if there really _was_ an invisible clock ticking, an invisible arbitrary bookend to his life, he fancied he’d like to know just how many hours he had left to change the world so he could make the most of them. Preferably by thumbing his nose at that old cow Thatcher.

“You look sick mate,” said Kevin, interrupting his train of thought as they made their way down to the square.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled.

“You don’t have to go alone,” said Dean.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, smiling, “It’s ten minutes. How bad can it be?”

* * *

“Are you _sure_?” the girl with the sharp bob asked, for what must have been the millionth time that morning.

“ _Merlin’s balls_ ,” her fair-haired companion replied, “I _told_ you, _everything_ matches.”

“He’s really weedy,” said the girl, “And nondescript.”

“Galaxies have been risked over much less,” her third companion replied.

“I suppose,” she answered, lowering her binoculars and turning to face them, “So,” she said, “Crouch or Montgomery?”

* * *

The thing about going to the hospital was that there were always people watching. People watching people go in and people watching them come out and they always knew, somehow, just who was there to be tested and who was there on other business. It was something in the way they held themselves, or had been made to hold themselves.

Justin exited the building and began walking briskly back to the square, where Dean and Kevin would be waiting for him, trying not to think of the way the burly man with knuckledusters was staring at him or the way the hairs on the back of his neck were rising. He was fairly certain he hadn’t imagined the muttered _poof_ ; not loud enough to attract attention but enough to let him know just what he was. At any rate, the prickling sensation on the back of his neck was real enough.

And it wasn’t subsiding.

 _Whatever you do_ , they’d all instructed him, _don’t look over your shoulder and don’t run_.

Balling his hands up into fists, he stuffed them into the pockets of his jeans and began walking faster. He could hear them in the distance, their angry yelling, over the sound of the traffic. Not very far then, to Dean and Kevin.

* * *

“C’mon,” said the girl, “We’ve wasted enough time.”

She revved the engines on her motorcycle and it began to float.

“Oh for _fuck’s sake_ ,” she cried.

“Well, _shit_ ,” swore the fair-haired man.

* * *

_Poof_.

There really was no mistaking it this time, but Justin kept going, blood roaring in his ears.

“Oi you!”

A pair of hands grabbed him and spun him around roughly. He punched wildly, not bothering to aim or see who his attacker was. His assailant released him, winded, and he turned to run, only to find his way blocked by another well-built man in a leather jacket leering down unpleasantly at him. For a moment, he thought he saw something strange in the man’s eyes – as though his pupils had bled into his corneas – but then he blinked and they were normal again and a large fist was crashing into his face. He reeled back and his assailant grabbed him again, muffling his mouth with a large, sweaty hand and then they both dragged him into a nearby alleyway.

Of all the ways to go, Justin Finch-Fletchley thought, being beaten to death in an alley way in broad daylight in central London was not the one he’d have chosen for himself at all.

“Please,” he begged them, as he landed hard on the cement, “I’ll give you my mo –“

“Check him,” said his first assailant.

More hands grabbed him and pinned him against a wall and then something sharp pierced his neck.

“It’s him,” someone grunted.

“Kill him.”

“ _Wait_ ,” Justin cried, as they pulled him away from the wall and flung him to the ground again, “If it’s money – look my dad – _holy fuck_ _–“_ the knife swept back and glinted in the sunlight and Justin hastily shut his eyes, “look,” he said desperately, his eyes screwed shut, “I’m worth _much_ more with a ransom, killing me’s – “

Inside, the tiny ball of panic which always sat there, always hiding, began to expand and the words began their drumming in the back of his brain – _kill him, kill him, kill him_ – louder and louder with every second –

The knife fell with a clatter to the floor as his would be murderer shrieked in pain.

“It _burnt me_ ,” he cried.

 _Oh good_ , Justin thought dizzily, _not dead_ , _not dead_ as the words continued their drumming – _kill, kill, kill_.

They were strapping a mask of some sort to his face and then a sickly sweet smell filled the mask and his lungs seized up and –

 _Gunshots_.

Justin groaned as his head hit the stone again, hard, and opened his eyes. A tall figure clad in black was swooping – _flying!_ – overhead, with a blue _holographic_ shield of some sort by his wrist and instead of the four men who’d attacked him in the alleyway, there were four twisted things – like gargoyles, but skinnier and if he was honest, like those aliens in _Close Encounters of the Third Kind_ , just browner, so, _aliens_ –

\-- there were more gunshots and then one of the _aliens_ fell to the ground, black blood spraying everywhere –

\-- everything was spinning now – the lights, the buildings – everything was blurry and swimming wildly and _another_ alien landed on his other side, dead.

 _Fucking aliens in London_.

He closed his eyes and scrabbled weakly at the mask, unwilling to process all that he’d seen ( _aliens! In London!_ _A flying man!_ ).

Justin gasped when the mask came off without warning, sucking in lungfuls of clean – or well, as clean as the London air ever got – fresh air.

“Justin Finch-Fletchley?” his rescuer asked, voice muffled by a mask which covered three quarters of his face.

Justin looked at the hand being held out to him, “Are you going to kill me?”

There was a moment of silence – somehow sardonic – after which his rescuer spoke.

“I’m going to ignore that question,” his rescuer said, hand still extended, “Come on,” he gestured impatiently, “We don’t have all day.”

Justin slowly uncurled from the tiny ball he’d managed to scrunch himself into and took the stranger’s hand.  There was something odd about the way it felt, underneath the glove – too hard, almost, to be entirely human – but Justin dismissed the thought as he stumbled to his feet, the world still spinning slightly.

“ _Aliens_ ,” he said faintly, looking at the bodies strewn around the tiny alley, “They were going to kill me.”

“You made the knife burn the Keeper’s hand,” his rescuer said, in an attempt at nonchalance.

“Yes,” Justin replied, “I can do that sometimes,” and then fainted into his rescuer’s arms.

The man sighed, “ _Fucking_ Tersies.”

* * *

When Justin woke, his skin was pricking all over and he was lying on a musty old mattress that he was fairly certain was a health hazard. Some time had passed since he’d fainted; the shadows were long and dark across tiny room and the giant beams visible across the ceiling – like those little old historical homes down in the village back home – were black and heavy in the dim light. It was quiet, much quieter than he ever remembered London being and he wondered if they had left the city. If his rescuer was not, in fact, as benevolent as he had seemed. That was a disturbing thought, but he seemed to be in one piece for now. He sat up slowly and then slid two fingers into his left boot. His knife, at least, was still his. No match against a gun, but better than nothing.

He got up and crossed the floor to look out of the window.

Outside, in the weak winter evening light, stood row upon row of houses, some squat, some tall and narrow, some of them fancier than others, and every single one of them empty. There was a cobbled road below and that too was completely empty, save for the weeds and grasses growing through the cracks in the paving. He opened the window and leaned out. As far as he could see, in every direction, it was the same story: short old houses with chimneys and not a sign of life – no smoke, no lights, no voices, not even the sound of traffic in the distance, just still cold silence and the wind whistling through empty streets and homes.

The door opened behind him and Justin turned around.

“What is this place?” he asked his rescuer, “Who are you? What the hell is going on?”

His rescuer raised his hands and laughed, face still covered by the mask, “One at a time. I’m,” he hesitated a moment and then bowed with a flourish that Justin fancied was sarcastic in its exaggeratedness, “Zacharias Smith – at your service. Aliens tried to kill you and I saved you – I _thought_ we’d established that – and this,” he came over to the window and looked out, “is Diagon Alley. Or at least, what’s left of it now, so not much. We’re still in London, if that’s what you’re worried about. Charing Cross road is a ten minute walk from here.”

“No,” Justin shook his head, the tight little ball of panic growing inside his stomach, “This isn’t London. This isn’t, this isn’t – who _are_ you? What do you _want_? Let me go _home_ ,” he made for the door, but before he reached it, it slammed shut and made a clicking noise.

By the window, Zacharias Smith was standing, with his right arm extended and a wooden stick in his hand.

“I’m sorry Mr Finch-Fletchley,” he said, slipping the wooden stick into a loop on his belt, “But I can’t let you go home. Not unless you want your friends to be killed along with you.”

“Is this about the ransom?” Justin asked him calmly, “Because my father _will_ pay any sum you ask – within reason.”

Zacharias Smith tilted his head and regarded him, “I don’t need your ransom,” he said, his voice strange, “It’s hard to explain. And we only have a short time before they catch up with us.”

“A summary is fine,” Justin’s voice was hard.

“Fucking _underdevelopeds_ ,” muttered Zacharias and then said out loud, “long story short: aliens exist, you’re not alone in this universe. Incredible, I know. A lot of people in the great beyond want you dead,  I don’t know why so any questions are pointless but the gist of it is that they seem to think you’re dangerous,” he shrugged, “There are at least three different hits put out for you. Don’t ask me why. Oh and also,” he paused, the corners of his eyes crinkling, “magic exists and you’re almost definitely a wizard. And I’m here to kill you. Or well, was.”

Justin latched on to the one thing in all of that which made sense and clung to it with dear life, “So you’re here to kill me,” he said, “Because someone else wants you to,” he slowly came over to the window, “You didn’t _save_ me, you were saving me _for later_ –“

He lunged forward, knife in hand, but Smith, who was both taller and faster, caught him by his wrists.

“You’re really not getting the hang of this are you?” said Smith as they struggled, “I’m – _bloody fucking Salazar_ ,” he shrieked, as the blade on the knife lengthened and scraped his shoulder, “I’m _not going to kill you_.”

He released Justin, ducked swiftly and tackled Justin at his waist, flinging him on to the mattress.

“ _Expelliarmus_ ,” he snapped, drawing the wooden stick from his belt, and Justin watched in amazement as the knife flew across the room into Smith’s open hand. He flung it out of the window and then crossed over to the mattress.

“Look,” he said raising his hands and kneeling down beside Justin, “This is difficult and a lot to take in and I know it’s not easy to trust a stranger –“

“ _Alien_ ,” Justin cut in, “In a mask.”

“You’ve been unconscious for _twelve hours_ ,” Smith continued, ignoring that jibe, “I’m too young to die. Or get caught by _keepers_. Can you imagine how terrible that would look on my resumé?”

Justin raised his eyebrows, “Really? That’s your best defence?”

“Yes,” Smith replied, “How good are you with guns?”

“What? I mean I’ve done some hunting but –“

“Good,” he said, standing up and digging around in the pockets of his coat, “Then I can give you this,” he drew what looked like an oversized handgun and held it out, “It shouldn’t be too different from what you’re used to,” he paused and then said seriously, “I trust you. Please don’t shatter it by shooting me when my back’s turned.”

Justin took the gun and looked at it and then back up at Smith, “All right.”

The corners of the man’s eyes crinkled as he held his hand out for Justin. _Smiling_ , Justin realized as once more, he took this stranger’s hand and climbed to his feet.

“Good,” said Smith, crossing over to the window, “Good,” he shut it and then turned around holding something out to Justin.

“Your knife,” he said, “I thought you’d want it back.”

“Thanks,” Justin replied, deciding that he didn’t want to know how Smith had managed to retrieve a knife he’d _just flung out of the window_ because it almost certainly involved the word ‘magic’ and he was still wrapping his head around _aliens_ , “Where are we going?”

“Wales,” Smith answered, “Scotland. None of your business.”

“Right,” said Justin, “You don’t think that we could um, stop at a payphone so I can let my friends know I’m fine?”

Smith raised an eyebrow, turned and then wordlessly disappeared down the stairs.

“Hermione’s going to skin me alive,” Justin told the empty room.


	2. The World Is Not Enough

There had been rumours, but of course, there always were rumours of one kind or the other circulating wildly through the vast expanses of space, drifting from one court to the other as wizards and witches travelled about their business. A skilled wizard could discern who was lying, who was merely exaggerating, who was simply passing on information they happened to have acquired by standing around in the right place at the right time and who really knew what was going on. Those less skilled at sifting through the myriad lies that floated through the universe at any given time were simply drawn into the vast cogs of its machines and reproduced them over and over again. Those in the know jealously guarded whatever little they knew and instead fenced with their words, sowing confusion and doubt where they could so that they and only they, would know precisely what it was that was happening in the universe at any given moment.

This time, however, even the rumours could not match the monstrosity of what actually was. There were guesses and half-guesses and plenty of wild imaginings. There were scattered whispers of a prophecy, a shifting among the planets; a stirring in the cosmos that would shake the very stars. Some said that after five millennia of silence, the Great Sybil, in her hall of prophecy had finally spoken, to deliver a rhyme which foretold the end of their world. Others spoke of the Moirai in the halls of Ananke, weaving day and night, and how one night, their skeins had all burst into flame as they wove which was taken to signify that the universe would end in fire. Nobody could confirm that any of this was true at all, except for a select few and they were far too preoccupied trying to decipher and ponder the signs to waste their time spreading rumours, or indeed, making quite clear precisely the _scale_ of disturbance in the cosmos that the rumourmongers might have even more grist to add to their mill.

The last of Slytherin’s heirs seemed blissfully unaware of all these varied rumours and the ills they portended as he strolled lazily along the empty streets of Zalintyre, arm in arm with a dark-haired woman. It was an unlucky thing, most people thought, to be counted one of Slytherin’s heirs. They had a propensity to overreach themselves and consequently, suffered humiliations that the three other great houses managed to avoid. Indeed, the last heir had ended his days trapped in a corner as a sentient computer programme and then deleted for all eternity by a masterful young hacker.  If his cousins were asked, they should have replied however, that this young man was in no such danger. Asked to describe him, they would have said that he was uncommonly handsome and youthful for someone his age, which was a polite way of saying that he had achieved nothing and consequently, suffered none of the stresses which came with success.  He had ice blue eyes that tended towards cruel when he was roused from his usual langour, rosy lips, dark hair artistically gathered at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon and no ambition whatsoever.

In short, he was a failure, but a devilishly good-looking failure and that, combined with his family name and his charm and good humour, was enough to conceal his failings and rouse pity in the hearts of most people - though particularly those of the fairer sex.

“I am assured that the process is entirely harmless,” he was telling his companion, “But nevertheless, it is very affecting to behold.”

“Dear Evan,” said the girl, dryly, “You always were so tender-hearted.”

Evan Rosier allowed himself a smile to acknowledge the hit, “I have my sensibilities, Jonquil.”

“Of course,” she said slyly, “You are an artist, after all, though as you say, your preferred medium is the human body. I imagine it must be very affecting to see the cold brutal mark of our cousin’s boots marring these works of art.”

“He is a brilliant man,” Evan answered, “But incorrigibly dull and lacking in imagination.”

“Thank you cousin,” came the hoarse-rattle whisper, somewhere behind him, “You flatter me as always.”

Evan laughed as they turned to greet the newcomer, “My admiration for you is quite sincere coz; I am delighted you could join us here – at the scene of your, er, latest triumph.”

“Cousin Bartemius,” said Jonquil, as the newcomer took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

“Evan,” he said curtly, barely tilting his head in acknowledgement. His lips might have twisted slightly in distaste at the sight of his cousin, but if Evan noticed he gave no sign of it.

“Is cousin Rookwood going to make an appearance at all,” asked Evan, “Or are we to begin without him?”

“Cousin Rookwood,” replied Bartemius, “Is otherwise occupied –“

“Cloistered,” said Jonquil in an undertone, audible only to Evan, “In his ivory tower.”

Evan smiled, “A shame. I should have dearly liked to have heard his views on the latest _on-dits_. Such rumours, coz, and each wilder than the last! First a Recurrence, then it was in fact a Convergence and not a Recurrence –“

“No cousin you are quite mistaken!” cried Jonquil, “It was a prophecy and neither of these – I have it on good authority that the Sybil broke her silence after five thousand years to deliver the fate of our universe –“

“I had heard that it was the weaving of the Moirae, for their threads had all burst into flame and that was certain proof that the world would end in fire,” replied Evan, “But most astonishingly of all,” he turned to Bartemius, “I heard that you had sought out your cousin in his exile and even more strangely, _employed_ him.”

Bartemius raised his eyebrows, “What strange company you keep, cousin Evan. I have heard none of these rumours.”

“But oh coz,” Jonquil turned her gaze, eyes innocently large, on Bartemius, “I heard it too, and from cousin Portia whom I am sure you will agree, is a highly reliable source.”

“Well, Crouch?” Evan asked him, “The whisperers diverge on all points but this and I must say, it does seem suspicious – and you, so close to your greatest success –“

“It’s such a pity,” said Jonquil, smiling at Bartemius, “You must be quite distraught by all the accusations.”

“On the contrary,” Bartemius answered her, “I ignore them all.”

“Then you undoubtedly possess a stronger constitution than either I or Jonquil’s sensibilities allow for,” cried Evan, “I was only just remarking how affecting a harvest can be – and yet you carry them out with unceasing devotion. My lady Hufflepuff would have been so proud – such a _hard_ worker.”

“And my lord Slytherin would have undoubtedly been proud that at least one of his descendants had learnt the virtue of self-preservation, if at the cost of ambition.”

“Oh but I am ambitious cousin. I have my eye on a little planet – quite small, but I believe I may find some use for it – that I believe was part of Our Lady’s inheritance – Earth, I believe, it was called.“

“Evan surely you can’t mean that one,” Jonquil protested, seizing his wrist, “Its worth at least twice your entire inheritance from your papa and besides, it belongs to cousin Barty.”

“Really?” Evan seemed shocked at this revelation, “I had no idea.”

Bartemius smiled thinly, “I am surprised cousin. So very little seems to have escaped your attention. Now if you’ll excuse me –“

“Ah yes, before you go, cousin,” Evan laid a hand on the richly embroidered gold sleeve of Bartemius’ robes, “I have one thing to ask of you – since this planet is quite out of the question.”

“Money?” Bartemius’ lips curled in obvious disdain, “You had best ask your father for that, Evan.”

“Nothing quite as much,” Evan replied, “I am quite comfortable for the present. No, you see, Barty, I _do_ have an ambition – the lack of which you have deplored in me so often, that you must see how reasonable this request is – and it lies with the hostage you keep so close.”

“Come now,” he said, at the look of hesitation on Bartemius’ face, “We are cousins and we have both the same interests in keeping her alive and I am not an abominable host, I fancy. And what is one human life?” he asked, drawing closer, “Compared to thousands. Millions. The fortune you would lose if anything should go wrong and fingers should point at _you_ and cast you off your throne –“

“Then you must collect her yourself, cousin,” Bartemius detached himself from his cousin’s grasp, “If you are determined to be ambitious. Jonquil –“ he inclined his head very slightly, “Evan,” he said, rather more coldly.

He flickered and then disappeared.

“A hostage?” Jonquil asked him, “And here I imagined you’d turned over a new leaf.”

“My dear girl,” he replied mildly, “The only constant I have is my art, surely you cannot wish to take even that little bit from me?”

“I would not dream of it,” she answered, “Though I do wish the poor girl well. It’s almost a pity –“

“You wound me coz,” Evan told her, as they continued their walk, “I am a charming host, but I shall make allowances for your tender disposition and not hold it against you. It is so very rare to find ladies who are as gentle-hearted as you coz.”

“So _magnanimous_ ,” she murmured and then dismissed all thought of Evan’s new hostage from her mind completely and abandoned herself to the rather more pleasant task of encouraging her cousin’s insincere but delightful attentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm running with the idea that given they left the Earth earlier on in their history, older generations of pureblood wix, especially those who spend most of their time in pureblood society, would have a more archaic form of speech compared to their younger counterparts - especially those who spend time travelling to other planets and mingling with local populaces there, which is why the three of them sound a bit like they're out of the 18th century.


	3. Crime and Escape

The Volkswagen Golf they’d nabbed outside a bookstore on Charing Cross road rattled ominously as they hurtled down the M4 at a speed Justin was sure far exceeded the 70mph limit, but Justin had more or less grown resigned to the fact that he was now irrevocably destined to a life of crime. Only half an hour ago they’d destroyed more of London than the protesters at Whitehall had and they hadn’t even made the news at ten, though Smith had said something about Obliviators and magic that Justin was still fastidiously Not Thinking About.

Not content with all the carnage, Smith had then proceeded to carjack this car with such skill that Justin wondered how many times he’d done this before and concluded that he didn’t want to know that either. In fact, Justin hoped that he’d wake up very soon and discover that Smith was just a bizarre figure his subconscious brain had dreamt up as a means of reconciling Justin to the dreary fact of his existence as a postgraduate student at the LSE. At least that would mean he _hadn’t_ embarked upon a life of crime and the destruction of public property at the behest of an _alien from outer space_.

Of course he’d spent an inordinate amount of that time swearing loudly and clinging to Smith for dear life – one brush with death a day was bad enough; twelve close calls and a battalion of alien spacecraft was enough excitement for a lifetime – except for that one clever and judiciously placed shot he’d fired which had brought down an entire spacecraft to both their surprises. 

It was the sort of shot that he would have boasted about at his family’s Christmas dinner. It was no mean feat, after all, to have managed it while being smashed up against Smith’s chest as they skated wildly over the London traffic, dodging the crafts firing at them. He’d even managed to do it without that sick feeling rising up inside him, though perhaps Smith’s pep talk before they’d walked out of the deserted pub on to Charing Cross road had had something to do with it.

(“You’ve hunted haven’t you?” Smith demanded, when Justin informed him that he couldn’t actually _kill_ people with the gun.

“Well yes but –“

“Well it’s the same principle,” Smith replied very matter-of-factly, “These creatures are about as sentient as your ducks and pheasants. Don’t waste your time wringing your hands over it.”)

Smith, Justin decided, was a lost cause, and having decided that, proceeded to be violently sick in the passenger seat.

“I’ve never met anyone with such a bad stomach for violence,” said Smith, once Justin surfaced for air, “For someone who hunts –“

“ _Birds_ ,” Justin was sick all over again, “Birds aren’t people.”

Smith looked at him in mock concern, “I thought we’d cleared that all up. Those aren’t people.”

“I mean they can talk and fly those things around –“

“Birds fly,” Smith said dryly. He slid his wand out of his right sleeve and casually vanished the mess.

Justin glared at his companion, “Don’t be obtuse.”

“I’m merely trying to determine differences here,” Smith replied, “Figure out why you get sick over the thought of killing “thinking” beings to save yourself – not that birds don’t think, mind you – and not over shooting birds for sport. Hypocritical, isn’t it?”

“In an ideal world I wouldn’t,” Justin answered as truthfully as he could, because this was not an ideal world and sometimes, it was nice to imagine that those pheasants were his brother Giles.

Smith scoffed.

“It’s not as though I enjoy it,” Justin retorted, “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“So then why d’you do it?” Smith asked him curiously, “Is it like how you believe in ‘equality for all’ even though you’re nobility? Or well, practically nobility.”

“D’you get off on this?” Justin demanded, “Provoking people? Anyway – how d’you even _know_ –“

“Your file,” replied Smith. Justin could see the crinkles at the corner of his eyes again and wondered if this was a sheepish smile or a casually unrepentant one. “You’ve been watched for some time now. Months, in your time, to be precise. Half a year, if you wanted to know. I’ve been figuring out the best way to kill you for half a year.”

Unrepentant it was, then.

“Yet here we are,” he said, “Me. Alive.”

Smith slammed his foot down on the accelerator and winked at Justin. It was a small mercy that this was a beat up old Volkswagen Golf and not one of the swankier cars you got sometimes down in Central London. Anymore horsepowers and Justin imagined he wouldn’t have had a head or a neck to speak of.

“So,” said Smith, “Why d’you believe all that shite?”

“It’s not _shite_ ,” Justin replied, “And it’s none of your business, so you can _sod off_ –“

“Okay,” said Smith, “What if I threw you out of the car right here?”

“I am _not_ a performing parrot,” said Justin hotly.

“No,” Smith agreed, “You’re a wizard. And I’m just trying to make conversation, one wizard to another.”

“You’re being extremely rude.”

Smith shrugged, “I’m not a nice person.”

This was a bit of an understatement for someone who claimed to be an assassin with a clean streak of completed missions.

“All right,” said Justin, “Maybe I don’t want to talk about it with a masked stranger, who is, as far as I’m concerned, an assassin and probably very dangerous.”

“Is it personal?”

“I don't want to talk about it –“

“I’m just really confused,” said Smith, “You hunt for sport but you hate violence even when it’s done in self-defence. You’re rich, but you spent your Cambridge days as something called a Marxist, which, as far as I can tell, involves you going to public places and yelling about how no one should lose their jobs. You’re a walking contradiction. There’s nothing vaguely logical about any of this –“

“Not to _you_ ,” Justin replied, not very kindly, “I don’t think you’d know what it means to believe in something because you think it’s the right thing even if it hit you in the face.”

“That was very rude.”

“Yes,” said Justin. And then hastily added, when he remembered the gun, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t ruin the moment,” Smith murmured.

 “You _are_ getting off on this,” said Justin indignantly, “You – you _wanker_ – what the _fuck_ –“

The car lurched wildly to the left as Smith swerved across the M4 for the Swindon exit.

“ _Swindon_?” said Justin, incredulous, “You’re taking me to fucking _Swindon_?”

“You should swear more often,” Smith said approvingly, “Your nose wrinkles very attractively when you swear.”

Justin rubbed his nose hard, as though this action would remove anything that Smith found remotely attractive about his nose.

“Wonderful place, Swindon,” Smith continued, “The pivot of the M4. Good for making hasty phone calls too.”

Right. Hermione. Justin felt vaguely touched at the thought that Smith had remembered it, despite their somewhat hasty departure from the place that existed somewhere in Charing Cross but obviously not on any of the official maps of London - and bad that he'd been so unkind only a few minutes ago. He snuck a glance at the man. There was nothing about the carefully unruly blond hair or his dark eyes which suggested thoughtfulness about him. Maybe he didn’t have to feel bad about being rude at all. It was obvious that it was purely accidental good fortune that Smith had remembered the phone call he had to make.

Justin frowned at his watch. Hermione _was_ going to kill him, if she hadn’t already called the police to start a search for him. He wondered if Hermione believed in the twenty-four hour rule or if, as a law student, she’d found some weird and obscure loophole to get around it and plague the everliving fuck out of the London Metropolitan Police on his behalf. He hoped not. His father would have Words to say about that. He hoped Kevin had done something which took both Dean and Hermione to set right and also, completely eclipsed Justin’s thirteen and a half hour disappearance.

On the other hand, maybe not. Even Trinity had to draw the line somewhere concerning the number of arrests musical geniuses were permitted.

He sunk lower in his seat as they approached the centre of the town and Smith began distractedly scanning the streets for a phone booth.

“You could have just let me make the phone call before we got on the bloody M4,” he told Smith.

“Sure,” was the reply, “If I’d reconciled myself to the inevitability of death, which I haven’t – _ah._ ”

He followed this by breaking at least six different traffic rules, including a red light and a ‘no right turns allowed’ sign, so he could park their stolen car right next to the pay phone he’d spotted. No one honked angrily, no one shouted and no one made any rude gestures which meant Smith must have used the Thing, _again_. Smith had a bad habit of using The Thing ( _magic_ , screamed the small and panicky part of Justin's brain) to tide over his tendency to break the law.

It was getting a little bit too much in Justin’s opinion, this business with The Thing and the lawbreaking.

So was Smith following him, actually sliding into the booth after him and leaning against the glass wall, one eyebrow raised slightly and arms crossed across his chest in a way that suggested he was in it for the entertainment and yet, somehow, above it all. As though they were  _friends_ and not strangers tossed together by the universe's perverse desire to see him bumped off. Not that he'd been fucking told why yet. 

“In case someone tries to kill you,” Smith said airily in response to Justin’s glare, one hand meaningfully placed on the gun at his hip.

Schadenfreude would at least havebeen the _honest_ answer.

Justin dialed Hermione anyway and cradled the phone in such a way as to put the greatest amount of distance between Smith and himself.

“Hermione,” he said nervously, when she picked up on the fourth or fifth ring. “It’s me –“

“You complete and utter _wanker_ ,” she said. “It’s nearly midnight, you’ve been missing for twelve and a half hours, do you have _any_ idea how _terrified_ we've all been?”

Justin did. “I’m sorry, but –“

“Sorry?  _Sorry_? No, don't say anything - where are you?”

“Um,” said Justin wincing, “Swindon?”

“ _What_?”

Justin winced again. “Swindon. On the M4.”

Smith snorted.

Hermione’s voice was dangerously calm when she began speaking again. Justin closed his eyes and grimaced. There would be hell to pay, when - and if - he got home.

“Do you mean to say,” she said, “That while the three of us have been scouring all of London for you – even though Kevin was arrested for assaulting a policeman –“

“ – he was a pig,” Justin could hear Kevin’s voice in the background, “A fascist pig. Had to punch him.”

“Even though Kevin was arrested,” Hermione continued, “ _You_ disappeared to _Swindon_. You didn’t think, for example, that maybe, _just maybe_ , you ought to tell at least _one_ of us you were going somewhere – leaving aside the little problem of you _lying_ to us about going for your checkup –”

“Hey,” Justin protested, “I did the checkup.”

“You did the tests and then you went to Swindon,” said Hermione flatly, “Stop _grabbing_ Kev –“

Dean's voice came muffled and distant over the telephone. "Why's he in fucking _Swindon_?”

“I think I’m going to Wales,” said Justin, “I’m not sure.”

On the other end of the line, Justin imagined, Hermione was probably pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Look,” he said, “I can’t talk for long, but the thing is, I’m in a bit of a fix. I’ll explain it all later, but I’m okay, all right? Don’t call my parents, don’t call the police. I’m fine, I’m just – I’m just in Swindon.”

“Hermione?” said Justin, when the other end of the line remained mostly silent, apart from the whispered conference in the background in which Justin's name featured several times.

“Justin –“

“I’m all right,” Justin snapped, “I’m with a friend, I’m all right.”

“A _friend_.”

“Smart one, aren’t you?” Smith murmured, leaning closer.

“Piss off,” Justin mouthed at Smith, then said into the receiver, “I uh, met him coming out of the hospital. Old friend. Old _family_ friend. You know how these things are.”

“ _Justin_ –“

“I’m sorry,” Justin squeaked.

“Please tell me you’ve bought condoms at the very least.”

“ _Hermione_ ,” Justin hissed, blood rushing to his face.

“The least you could do is use a condom.”

In the background he heard Kevin say, with righteous indignation, “He left us for a _shag_?”

Justin wondered if the look of amusement in Smith’s eyes was because he’d overheard the conversation or simply because he was red as a tomato. He hoped it was the latter. He’d take personal embarrassment over Smith getting any ideas about - about  _anything_.

“ _Hermione_ –“ 

“ _Justin_ – I’ll call your mother and tell her you’re, you know –“

It wasn’t as though his parents  _weren’t_ supportive, even if they sometimes looked at him like he was a flamingo who’d somehow accidentally landed up in their midst, but they _worried_. Justin was twenty-five. He was too _old_ to be worried over, least of all by his _parents_.

“All right,” he mumbled, “I’ll do it.”

“ _Shut up you lot, I can’t hear him_ – what was that?”

“Don’t call my parents,” he said, glancing up at Smith. “I’ll do it - I'll buy - I'll -" he closed his eyes and half-wheezed the word, " _Condoms_. All right? Bye.”

“ _Justin –“_

“Not a word,” he told Smith, as he hastily hung up before Hermione could say anything. “Not a single word.”

“There was a Boots,” Smith said happily, “Few streets ago. I know a spell or two -”

" _No_ ," said Justin, " _No stealing_."

"But -"

It was only the threat of the gun on the man’s hip (and The Thing, but Justin was still Not Thinking About It) which kept Justin from strangling from Smith.

* * *

“Merlin you’re such a peabrained, ferret-faced idiot Draco,” said the girl, “You had _one_ task – “

“Shut up Parkinson,” her blond-haired companion replied irritably, “I found the place didn’t I?”

“After they’d _left_ ,” she kicked carelessly at the tire of a nearby car, “Blaise found the car and I got the license number, which means _you’ve_ done literally nothing besides hang around like one of your stupid pampered peacocks.”

Draco looked at Blaise, wiggling his eyebrows in an appeal for support. Blaise looked pointedly into one of the nearby bookstores and whistled.

“It’s not my fault,” Draco whined, “If my father were here –“

“Your father’s dead,” she said, “Or in prison. It amounts to the same thing.”

“It’s not my fault,” Draco muttered truculently, as he flipped through the pages of a book filled with strange runes, “I don’t deserve this.”

“You deserve this twice as much as anyone,” she replied. “We wouldn’t all be in this mess if you’d done the _one thing_ you had to –“

Draco shut the book and put it away in a manner that could best be described as meaningful – which, as his friends knew, meant his father would hear about this later. Or would have, if his father wasn't dead or imprisoned or on a frozen wasteland of a planet. Blaise’s tuneless whistling intensified. 

“I haven’t had a regenerative bath in ten years,” the girl persisted, “I’m a _hag_ –“

Blaise stopped whistling at this. This was his forte. He turned and examined her with the air of a connoisseur. “Not exactly a hag,” he concluded, then added, with backhanded gallantry, “You look much better.”

“I loathe you,” said the girl. “And I loathe you.” She said this to Draco, as he carefully began transcribing runes on the ground where a Volkswagen Golf had once been parked.

Neither he nor Blaise seemed particularly put out by this declaration. Parkinson made a regular point of declaring how much she loathed them both so neither of them started getting above themselves. In return, they paid her backhanded compliments. They were the best team of bounty-hunters in the galaxy, possibly also, the universe.

Or at least, that was how they advertised themselves.

“Well?” she said, tapping her foot impatiently and, in Draco’s opinion, dangerously close to his rune circle.

“Will you wait?” he said through gritted teeth, “These things take time.”

She waited as he muttered the incantation and the circle began to glow. She waited for precisely one minute and twenty three seconds before she said it again.

“Well?”

This time, Draco sat back and frowned.

“Wales,” he said, bewildered, “They’re going to _Wales_. In fact, they’ve just crossed - somewhere -”

He jabbed at a city in the South of Wales, on an ancient map held together solely by magic and willpower, "There.  _Caerdyf_."

"Cardiff," Blaise corrected him. "It's not the tenth century anymore, Malfoy."

* * *

On the other side of Cardiff, two hours after possibly the most humiliating phone call in his entire life, Justin Finch-Fletchley was slowly coming to the realization that he was being baited.

The suspicion had begun niggling at him as they entered Cardiff, after an hour and forty minutes of incessant arguing, when the conversation had finally come to a standstill. There had even been silence for all of five minutes. And then all of a sudden, Smith had gone back to a point that had occurred at least an hour ago and begun asking all kinds of questions about it with a purposeful sort of obtuseness. That was when it dawned on Justin that it was quite likely that he was being baited because no one, especially not Smith, could be _that_ interested _and_ obtuse about the question of the redistribution of resources.

He was trapped – _kidnapped_ , said a voice that sounded just like Hermione’s – in a Volkswagen Golf with an intergalactic assassin who was needling him about, of all the things to be needled about, Practical Marxism.

Justin had once read a book featuring Practical Socialism. It mostly seemed to have involved the careless redistribution of umbrellas and public school studies. Clearly, whoever had written it had never attended any of the meetings of his local chapter of the Fabian society or he would have known that Socialism was ten times greater and grander than all of that. Smith had somehow managed to make a similar hash of Marxism by, for one, insisting on calling it Practical Marxism and for another, insisting that all it involved was a bunch of people standing around yelling about how they wanted things which they didn’t own and for free.

“It’s not right,” said Smith, “It’s not _nice_ that they can’t go on working at the coal mines, but if it belongs to the government, I don’t see that they have the right to go on and on about shutting it down – and I don’t see why they ought to be allowed to ‘seize the means of production’ or whatever you call it. You wouldn’t like it if someone decided your house was a means of production, would you?”

It was precisely the sort of thing Justin’s other brother, Vincent, would say at Christmas dinner with the express intent of stirring up one of the infamous Finch-Fletchley Christmas Dinner rows between Giles and Justin.

“Well,” said Justin, thinking about Dean and Kevin who worked twice as hard as he did to get only half the money, “It’s not right that I live in a ten bedroom mansion, five acre estate included, and can afford the rent on a flat in Holborn on just trust funds – ‘s not like I worked for it, is it?”

“Yeah,” said Smith, “But it’s _yours_. That’s the whole bloody point.”

 “That’s not the point,” said Justin, “The point is, it’s unfair to put this kind of pressure on humans and expect them to work endlessly, as though they’re slaves – cogs in the wheels – while some of us get to lounge around being social lizards, feeding off of them – we’re rich because they’re poor.“

“Eloquent,” Smith said dryly, as they turned out of Cardiff and on to a tiny dirt road that Justin was certain would end in a ditch, “I had no idea it was this easy to make people stop wanting things, or being innately terrible.”

Justin scowled. “I’m sorry you have such a poor view of people,” he said, “But I’m not sure it’s an accurate one at all, we’re not all completely irredeemable – it just, they need a little persuading.”

Smith purposefully drove the Golf through a large pothole before replying. “ _Have_ you managed to persuade anyone?”

Justin winced at the thought of Christmas dinner arguments with Giles, thankful he could disguise it as a natural reaction to being driven over yet another pothole.

“Well not yet,” he said, then added brightly, “But there’s always a first time.”

Justin nearly bit through his tongue as the Golf dipped into a particularly deep pothole at exactly the same speed which they’d been travelling at on the M4. He hastily reached for the grab handle. It came off in his hand and Justin’s head hit the window as the left wheel dipped into a deep rut.

“Are you _mental_?” Justin demanded, rubbing his head where it had smacked the window. “This isn’t the bloody M4.”

“And?” said Smith.

“ _Slow down_.”

The needle on the speedometer wavered then rose.

“Before you lecture me,” said Smith, “Which you do very well by the way - you could give my aunt a run for her money - you _should_ know _someone’s_ tracking us by now –“

“I’m assuming that this is all going to be explained,” said Justin, “Or I’m going to wake up and find out it’s just a nightmare and none of this is real.”

“Surely not _that_ bad,” said Smith, “You haven’t been injured yet – here take it –”

Justin yelped and dove for the wheel as Smith promptly let go of it to fish out The Thing – and a slim book with strange scribbles and pictures in it.

“Do you _absolutely_ have to do this now?” Justin demanded, struggling to keep the car going in a straight line.

“Someone’s tracking us,” said Smith, flipping through the pages. He pointed at one of the dials. Instead of the usual pump, there was a large T and the T was blinking red. “I’m not a fucking idiot, you know – _ah –_ “

He waved The Thing in a double-figure-eight followed by a single loop of his wrist and then a half loop and then something that looked complicated, before he began muttering something underneath his breath and moving The Thing around at the same time. Justin caught snatches of what sounded like Latin as Smith continued muttering, until the T turned from red into blue and then back into the old familiar petrol pump.

 _Latin_ , of all the bloody languages. _Latin_.

“That should hold them off for a while,” Smith muttered, carelessly tossing the book onto the backseat and grabbing the wheel from Justin.

“Them?” Justin squeaked, thinking about the - _aliens_. “I thought we threw them off.”

“Third parties. Interested third parties. Maybe even fourth parties. I told you,” said Smith, carelessly swinging the car on to an impossibly unfinished mud road. “The whole fucking universe is after you.”

That, Justin thought, was the last time he complained about wet socks and ill-tempered professors.

* * *

“You _lost_ them?” the girl shrieked, “You couldn’t even manage an _undetectable tracking spell_?”

“He’s good at his job,” Draco said weakly, “Pansy –“

“So was _I_ ,” she said, “Until you came along.”

* * *

They pulled up on the side of the dirt track, got out and walked. The road quickly dwindled into a narrow footpath. Soon, the ground next to one side of the path began to dip down until all of a sudden, they were standing above a densely wooded copse, with the tops of the trees just about reaching the path along which they’d been walking. It all seemed a bit tricky, like optical illusions which made things appear out of nowhere or like they were something that they weren’t; Justin hadn’t even realized the road was climbing until the ground fell away on the side and they were standing above the tops of the trees.  

Smith, without bothering to see if Justin was following, dived straight down into this little wood. For a moment, he stood there, outside the wood and then all of a sudden, he shimmered and disappeared.

Justin swallowed. _Magic_. He finally forced himself to say it. It was impossible to pretend anymore even if the whole thing seemed so implausible. Magic and aliens. Two things in one day. No wonder his head was starting to hurt. His sensible Hermione-voice reminded him he could just as easily walk away and catch a train back to London from Cardiff. If magic could make people disappear there was no saying what else it could do. The smart thing to do was ditch the assassin and go home.

Smith reappeared between the trees, hands on his hips.

“Oi,” he said, “Don’t make me come and get you.”

Justin told himself it was only because he wanted to save himself the indignity of being carried away like a sack of potatoes by an intergalactic assassin that he scrambled down the ridge and into the copse after Smith.

The uncanny sense of being caught in the middle of an optical illusion persisted down here as well. From the outside, the copse looked impenetrable. Standing in front of it however, it looked less impenetrable and more intangible. Untouchable. Justin reached out and the apparently tight and unyielding knot of branches, creepers and brambles drew back further, just out of his reach. He followed after them. A few steps further and they melted away completely, leaving the two of them on the outskirts of a village that had the same empty and lifeless feel to it as the place he’d woken up in, in central London. Time seemed to have stood still here too, houses and gardens on either side of a broad street, preserved intact by whatever it was that made his skin prickle all over. 

Smith seemed unbothered by the strangeness of all of this. He strode determinedly on with long strides that meant Justin had to jog slightly to keep up with him, right on out of the village, completely incurious about his surroundings. He must have been here many times before, Justin reflected. Or maybe, this was a usual sight out there in the great beyond. Maybe there were whole planets that were empty and prickling like this and maybe Smith had been to every single one of them. Maybe Smith lived all by himself on a completely deserted planet. The image simultaneously fascinated and repulsed Justin. It certainly explained the man's misanthropic views. Anyone left with their own thoughts and nothing else to keep them company was bound to grow jaded and disillusioned.

They climbed a crumbling old, low wall and then began up a small hill with a lone church perched at the summit. It was small enough to be just a chapel; it was tiny, only just about bigger than the houses back down in the village. Justin was vaguely disappointed when it stayed just as small as it had appeared from the bottom of the hill when they reached it. Something about it demanded it be treated with more respect than a mere church or a chapel, and not just because it was _old_ or had heritage, but Justin couldn't put his finger on _what_ it was.

Once again, Smith was unbothered by this. He was, in fact, rooting about in one of the church’s flowerbeds like a dog.

“Here,” he said, pausing to hand Justin the gun he’d slung across his back when they left the car, “Cover me, in case, you know -”

He did, but he didn't want to. It wasn't the first time Justin had felt that way today.

Justin took the gun – a cross between a blunderbuss and a rifle, different from the pistol Smith had given him when they were in London – and made a face at it. The last time he’d held a gun as antiquated as this one, he and his sister had broken into his grandfather’s collection of guns and rifles when they were thirteen. If it was anything like the one he and Marjory had fired by accident, it wouldn’t be of much use – not in his hands, at least. It was quite possible it would behave differently, maybe even be functional, if Smith was the one using it. Smith could have done a passable job pretending to be a paragon of English masculinity, what with the guns and the absurd hunting metaphors to justify killing – _things -_ despite his inherent outsiderly strangeness. Justin, unfortunately - and to his eldest brother's eternal disappointment - could not.

“A telephone,” Justin said flatly, as Smith pulled a big grey box with an antique telephone receiver and a complicated looking dial attached to it out of one of these flowerbeds.

“A _tellyfone_ ,” Smith replied. “They’re two very different things.”

This seemed true enough: the ‘tellyfone’ did not appear to be connected to any wires at all. Justin wasn’t entirely sure how telephones worked, but he _did_ know it all involved a lot of wires and British Telecom. He eyed the contraption doubtfully as Smith began to spin the dial.

Smith glanced up at the night sky, cradling one half of the receiver to his ear.

“Don’t let me down, Hopkins,” he muttered, searching the stars for  _something_.

No lights came out of the sky. The stars stayed firmly in their place and no beams shot down from the heavens. Justin shivered despite himself, the hair on the back of his neck suddenly standing on end. Somewhere, out there, was more than just the satellites and spaceships in orbit they'd sent up from Earth: there were  _aliens_. Out there. Waiting for him. 

Justin shivered again.

“ _Come on you fuck_ ,” Smith bellowed at the ‘tellyfone’.

This time something moved, but it moved on the horizon. Three stars appeared out of nowhere and wobbled slightly. The darkness shimmered a bit at that point on the horizon. Suddenly they weren’t stars at all but swiftly moving points of light – _spaceships_ – or people, coming towards them.

Justin yelped, hastily released the trigger on his gun and took aim.

“Um,” he said, in what he hoped was a conversational tone, “I think there are people –“

“Of course there are _people_ ,” said Smith, punching the grey box, “ _Wayne_ – Don’t just stand there, _shoot them_.”

Justin gulped and fired. The world disappeared in a smoky haze with a loud roar. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back in the mud and Smith was swearing loudly at him.

“Sweet Salazar,” he was saying, “Now’s not the time to _lie down_.”

There was a loud cracking sound, some distance out in the night and somewhere on the right of them. The bush Justin had landed in shook violently with the impact of whatever it was that had been fired at them. Several leaves hissed, burning into cinders on the spot.

Justin grabbed Smith’s arm and hoisted himself up.

“Keep firing,” said Smith, thrusting one of his pistols into Justin’s hands, “Just fucking fire.”

Justin swallowed, aimed at the approaching lights and fired. The lights never wavered for a second, they kept steadily on their path towards them.

Just behind him, Smith pointed The Thing, the Magic Thing, at the grey box and muttered until it burst into flames.

Justin fired again. This was stupid, like throwing cups of water on a burning house. He had a pistol. They had – _something_. Big. Whatever it was, it was hitting the ground all around them, kicking up little showers of mud and frost and sometimes, even stone. Nearly all the bushes neatly planted around the little church were on fire.

It seemed like a lot of destruction for very little.

“Come on,” said Smith, grabbing Justin with one hand, pistol out in the other, again. “Let’s go.”

Another shot rang out, this time so close it made Justin jump. Smith let go of his hand and doubled over, clutching his stomach.

“What –“ said Justin faintly.

The lights were not very far away now.

“Change of plan,” Smith replied, straightening and looking at his hand with a distant expression. The fingertips of his glove were dark and sticky with blood. “Put your arms around me.”

“Shouldn’t you –“ said Justin.

Smith grabbed him and the next thing he knew, the world had disappeared and Justin felt like his insides were being sucked out of him and fed through a telephone line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Practical Socialism' is one of my favourite Psmith-isms from the Psmith series by P G Wodehouse.


End file.
